Letter to My Teenage Son Who is Grieving

I heard you from the dining room. At first I thought you were laughing. Then as I listened closer I realized that those ha ha ha’s were actually sobs. You were crying, sobbing your heart out, the first I’ve heard since you’ve become a teenager. You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve anymore – you try to keep your emotions close, and I’ve learned to respect that.

What could be making you cry? I wondered. Five minutes prior you walked through the door with your usual after-school "OK Boomer!!" shout. What could have happened to you in the 30 minutes since school ended? 

At first I thought you were crying because of girlfriend drama, but as I came into your room and looked at your grief-stricken face I realized it was something more. I put my arm around you and asked what was wrong. You didn’t pull away like you normally would and it was then I knew something horrible had happened.

“My friend died,” you said between sobs.

The realization hit me like a brick and I started crying too. Crying for you to have lost a peer, a friend, at this young and tender age of 14. Crying for your classmates for this is a hard and unimaginable loss for you all. Crying most for your friend’s parents and family because they are going to have a difficult road ahead. 

Breathe.

We cried together until we were out of tears. Later we talked about your friend and her death, about how tomorrow at school would be a hard day. You kept to your room for the rest of the night, connecting with your friends on your phone. I kept looking in to you to see if you needed my support or a hug or anything. You wouldn’t let me hug you - the one I gave you earlier was the only one you were going to let me have.

I wanted to tell you so much but I just didn’t have the words. 

At 9:30 I went into your room and saw that you had fallen asleep curled up around your cat. Your headphones were lying by your head and your phone was probably buried under your arms. I pulled the covers around you as best as I could so you wouldn’t be cold and I stood there watching you for a minute, soaking you in, loving you on my terms. On a normal night I wouldn’t get this chance, for you no longer let me tuck you in or hug or kiss you goodnight. But on this night I gave you a kiss on the forehead as I tucked you in, letting my love for you out through my actions. I suspect you weren’t really sleeping, but pretended to do so because you needed this from me.

This morning you came into the kitchen wearing a blue hoodie.

“A bunch of friends said to dress in blue and green today,” you said, “for Alexandria.”

You kids! So full of your own wisdom and ways to grieve. As we drove to the bus stop I was glad for the darkness of morning, so you couldn’t see my face tight with grief, the tears as they coursed down my face.

As I dropped you off I was unsure of what to say. I thought about telling you to be strong and brave as you faced the day, for that’s the message society tells us – to put on a brave face and push all our feelings down. But being strong and brave for others means we just push our grieving inside where it will grow and stagnate. 

“Have a good day,” was not appropriate but “I love you” was. That was the only thing I could say. But what I wanted to tell you was this:

This is why I grieve. I grieve that at 14 you have to face death head on, that you have to face the death of a friend. That you have to feel all the feelings of true loss, all the emotions, and start asking questions that have no answer, those questions that I too am grappling with, the simplest of which is “Why?” You’ve seen death before, when he took your Grandmother in January, or your Great-Grandmother a few years ago. But to a young person, that type of death is kind of unreal. It’s not in your face every day, as this death will be.

Alexandria was your friend and you’re going to feel a loss. Every day when you are in 1^st hour band and she is not there to play her part on the saxophone you will feel it. You will feel it in science when you look across your table at an empty seat. When you see friends and teachers crying, you will feel it. And I hope you don’t keep it in. I hope you cry along with your friends. I hope you take my advice from this morning to just be real.

As a mother I cannot fathom what her parents are going through. It is every parent's greatest fear to lose a child and it causes a pit in my stomach to even think about it. So I hope you understand that I’m going to be hovering over you closely, showing you as much affection as you will allow me to. Because I am grateful that you are alive. And I want to love every precious second of you.

We can’t see into the future and know how long we have on this earth and how much time we will have with our friends and families. All we can do is to live in the moment.

As you process your feelings I have some advice on how to handle your sadness. Don't be afraid of grief. Facing grief head on is scary, but also necessary. You can run and hide from it but eventually it will catch up to you and force you to deal with it, perhaps in the form of depression or illness. Grief can be a friend and show you how to be real and truly present in life. Grief can show you true healing if you let it.

That’s the silver lining here, son. To see this difficult time of your life for what it is – a wake-up call. A call to be thankful for everyone and everything. A call to be grateful for your life, even the parts you think are hard, for in the big picture of things they aren’t as hard as dealing with this death. And so, I encourage you to forgive and to be kind and compassionate. Love fiercely your friends and family.

Hard things happen in life - that's a fact. Some things we are not prepared for and could never be, and if grief were not there we would all be walking around numb or angry. Grief softens the anger, it makes us human. 

So sit with grief as long as it takes. Know that when grief comes it is time to be still and listen and feel:

Feel all the feelings that are climbing their way out of your gut. 

Open your heart and love a little more.

Be vulnerable. 

Cry. 

Feel sad (and you will for a while). 

Be brave enough to wear your heart on your sleeve, for that is true bravery.

I am sorry for your loss. I cannot replace your friend but I can grieve with you. Know that I am here for you in whatever capacity you need. And that I love you. Always and forever.

Love, Mom

Lessons From The Tree

The Tree circa 1975 - photo credit Jeff Wurges

One of my most cherished childhood memories is an adventure I had with my dad the summer I was six years old. I met Dad for lunch at his office in the music department of Oakland University. He told me we were going on an adventure, a short hike. Was I game? Or course I was! Our destination - my dad's favorite place, a very special tree. I didn't know it then but Dad was about to teach me everything important about life in three short but profound lessons.

From Varner Hall we trekked over lush green hills full of tall grasses until we reached a small park surrounded by pine trees. As we reached the edge of the park I caught my first glimpse of The Tree - a grand maple set on a hill in the middle of a large meadow, its majesty commanding and watching over the field. A large forest surrounded the area and behind the tree was a marsh full of tall, brown cattails. The sky was a brilliant blue and the air was heavy with the sweet smell of Queen Anne's lace.

Lesson Number One: You are never too old to feel and express joy.
As I started to walk towards The Tree Dad stopped. This was no ordinary tree, he told me, so we had to approach it in an extraordinary way. "You have to frolic," Dad said. "Watch!"

Frolicking occurs when your heart sings and the melody comes up and out through your fingers and toes, causing you to play and move about energetically and excitedly. I watched as Dad swung his arms back and forth, propelling his legs forward, so that he was running and leaping at the same time. I joined in and so we frolicked down the valley, running and jumping with glee on our way to The Tree. How celebrated The Tree must have felt as we ran to her in that happy-go-lucky manner. To this day there is an unspoken rule between Dad and I that if we come upon a field or meadow we must frolic our way through it.

Lesson Number Two: All life is sacred and it is important to give thanks.
When we arrived at The Tree, Dad gave me my first lesson in how to hug a tree. He taught me how to extend my arms and press into The Tree so my whole body was supported. He taught me to turn my head so my cheek rested on The Tree's smooth skin, close my eyes, and breathe. Just breathe, appreciate, and love The Tree.

Then Dad helped me to climb The Tree, lifting me up into a low-hanging bough, watching as my long legs wrapped themselves around a branch, never letting me go until I was securely attached. I'm sure Dad would have liked to climb The Tree too but he knew he was needed on the ground to catch me if I fell, because that is what parents do for their children.

Lesson Number Three: The present moment is where we find our peace.
Dad passed my picnic lunch up to me - I remember it was cucumber sandwiches with mayo on homemade wheat bread that fell apart, and soft, black plums that stained my palms with sticky, pink juice. I laid back into The Tree's very supportive branch and ate my lunch, listening to the cacophony of crickets keeping time with the slow summer beat. I gazed from my perch out over the valley. Time had stopped and the outside world disappeared. If I'd had any worries at age six they were no longer there. There was only this moment, in The Tree, with my dad, and I was at peace.

That day my dad's special place became mine also. My dad and I visited The Tree often, sometimes bringing Mom and my brother to frolic in the open meadow. As a young adult, I attended Oakland University and visited The Tree when I needed a time out from the hustle and bustle of student life. It was a place I could come and sit and be one with nature as I listened to the crows call out to one another and the crickets chirp out their steady beats. I could lay back and daydream as I watched the clouds in the sky blow across the horizon. It was a place where I could be at peace with myself.

When my first-born son Michael was two and I was pregnant with Nick, Dad and I took him to The Tree. It was an early August summer day, not unlike the first day Dad introduced me to The Tree. In keeping with tradition, we taught Michael to hug The Tree and how to sit underneath her branches and enjoy the stillness and peace she provided. 

One fall after Nick turned three, Dad and I took the boys to The Tree. The University had installed a new parking lot and a new Facilities building so we weren't sure she would still be there or if we could even find her, but we did. The late afternoon sun was glorious as we frolicked towards the majestic maple. We taught Nick how to hug The Tree and Michael learned how to climb her. We threw her leaves into the air, leaves that were as golden as the sun's yellow rays. The air was magical that afternoon and it is still one of my most favorite days.

The Tree Circa 2008

Then life took over and we stopped visiting. I remember the year when Michael was nine or ten I decided to reacquaint him with The Tree, but five years had changed the area - there was no one to maintain the land and the meadow had disappeared, overgrown with trees and bushes and grasses. I think we caught a glimpse of The Tree but could not get to her without some serious bushwhacking, which my son did not want to do that day.

At the end of this past summer, I invited my dad to go visit The Tree. Forty-four years had passed since our first visit and we were no longer spring chickens, but he was game. We weren't even sure if The Tree would still be there. So much had changed since the last time either of us had been - what was once a forest was now a student parking lot. But glory of glories, we found the dirt road that led to the park and found the ring of pine trees that now towered into the sky. That gave us hope, but we soon discovered that our meadow was no more, now overgrown with towering aspens and multitudes of crab apple trees and some version of flowering mint or oregano that made each step smell heavenly.

There was too much overgrowth for us to head straight through to The Tree, so we circled east, then south, bushwhacking through the weeds and prickers in search of our tree. Every now and then we would stop and breathe in the heady floral scent of Queen Anne's lace.

Our memories worked overtime, trying to place the location of The Tree in this jungle. During our trek we discovered many new additions to the area - a hiking trail maintained by an Eagle Scout, a golf course, and lots and lots of bushes, trees, flowers, and bees - but we did not find The Tree.

Finally we found the area that had been the meadow. As we looked around we saw a few tall aspens but no giant majestic maple. However, as we walked further we came across a large assortment of dead branches lying across the foliage.

Resting Place of The Tree - 2019

"This must be it," Dad said as he looked around. I didn't want to concede - I really wanted our tree to be alive, but we had walked the perimeter for an hour and there was no sign of her. Dad gently broke off one of the branches, a reminder of The Tree and all she had signified. We stood in silence for a moment, lost in our own memories of The Tree, giving thanks for her place in our journeys.

I was grateful for the lessons she had shown Dad so he could share them with me, for they have turned into the principles in which I live my life: remembering to be joyful, to revere life and to give thanks for every moment, and to know the present moment is where peace lies. In turn, I passed them along to my sons when they were ready, upholding Mother Nature's circle of life. What I was most grateful to her for, however, is the bond she created between my Dad and I. Such memories she helped to foster and create!

Dad and I trekked out in silence, Dad using the branch as a walking stick to help him navigate over the raspberry branches and burdock root plants. I was sad The Tree was gone - she had come to be a friend, one I could visit when I needed a little space or an infusion of peace, and believe me, as the mother of two boys I required a lot of both! However, I knew she had lived a most wonderful life and would someday soon be part of the earth again and perhaps rise once more, for Nature is ever evolving. Maybe by the time I have grandchildren she will have returned. One can only hope. For now, however, I am content to recall her magnificence from memory:

It's summertime and the sun is high overhead. I am nestled a few branches up in The Tree. Dad is sitting at its base. I gaze out around at the meadow before me. Nikki, our dog, chases birds and squirrels in the sunlight as we watch. The air is heavy with humidity and fragrance. Silence surrounds us - an occasional bird waking from a midday nap calls to us. Peace is upon us and I breathe it in.

The Last Day of Summer

I’m sitting in the back seat of Jeff’s truck next to Michael. Our bathing suits are on, the boat is hooked up, and we’re ready for one last ride in the boat and one more swim before school starts.

Outside the truck the clouds are looking dark and ominous. I look at my weather app and it says that rain is imminent in the next 66 minutes. I hear what I think is thunder right before Jeff gets into the truck.

Part of me wants to throw in the towel (literally!) and cancel the ride. Even though I have the laundry done, there’s dinner to prepare, backpacks to fill, schedules to create – lots to do before the first day of school. But the other part of me says screw it – it’s Labor Day and all we have done today is labor. In actuality most of what we have done this summer is labor, with a few boat rides sprinkled in here and there and one get-away to Wisconsin and Minnesota. If we get wet it doesn’t matter, after all we’re on a boat on top of the water, which is also wet. And if a storm rolls through we’ll pull the boat in.

Jeff echoes my sentiments and off we go. After all, a boat ride on Labor Day is tradition. By the time we get the boat backed into the water, Murphy’s law is being proven – it has started to sprinkle. But again, we plan on going swimming, which is wet, just like rain. Every other boat is rushing in – they’ve seen what the radar looks like. But I remember last Labor Day, when we decided to take the boat out. We had just backed in when a patrolman came over and told us that a huge storm was headed our way within the hour. My gut said go anyway so we decided to take our chances. My gut was right - the storm passed us by, not a drop of rain was shed, and we had a great time swimming.

Today we are the only crazy people launching a boat in the rain. I hope we won’t get caught in a downpour – don’t we deserve a little fun time before all the craziness of the school year starts?

As the boat carries us out to our swimming hole, I ruminate on my reluctance to let go of summer. I mean, no one likes summer vacation to end, but usually by the last few weeks of summer I am ready for routines to begin and peace from bickering kids.

This year, I’m not ready.

Maybe it’s because I know that winter will soon be here, for there is nothing that makes time go faster than a school year. September begins with curriculum nights and football games; October is conferences, cider mill visits, and Halloween. In November we begin to pull out warmer clothing and winter jackets and then Thanksgiving break is here. One month later is Christmas and New Years, and the days of summer with boat rides, sunbathing, bike rides, and reading on the deck are distant memories.

Winter is not my favorite season and so that is a plausible excuse for not wanting summer vacation to be over, but I don’t think that’s the real reason. The truth lies in my heart, and my heart knows that these summer days with the kids are coming to an end. Next year, the summer before his senior year, Michael will probably (hopefully!!) have a job and it will be his last summer before reality really kicks in and we have to start thinking about college visits, college applications, college, college, everything COLLEGE!!!

I’m not ready.

This summer was different, because it was my first with two teenaged boys. It was my first summer where time was not dictated by me but by the boys, who spent a lot of time staying up late and sleeping in and getting together with friends. It was the first summer I was able to give them some freedom to determine and make their own plans for the day.  It took me a long time to be able to give them that freedom without feeling anxious (watch for the post about that – it’s coming!!) but because of it we had a very harmonious summer. And I’m not ready to replace that with all the anxiety that comes with school – early morning rising, homework, lack of free time.

I remember as a younger parent with two active kids, talking to an older couple as we waited for our table at a local restaurant. They had teenagers and I could see as they watched our kids they were remembering their children when they were younger.

“They grow up so fast,” the dad said.

“Savor every moment,” the mom said.

I smiled and nodded and brushed their words off because the teenage years seemed so far away from the stage I was at with my needy elementary school-aged children. At the time all I really wanted was one moment of peace and quiet. Now, however, I am in that couple’s place and I have many moments of peace and quiet.

But they were right. The time with my kids has flown by so fast. In two years I will be the proud parent of a high school graduate and three more after that I will be the proud parent of two high school graduates. It seems inconceivable to me. I can’t stop time and I wouldn’t want to. Part of me is excited to see what these two young men are going to do with their lives; the other part can’t imagine daily life without them.

I’m not ready, but it’s ok. I’m going to take that wise couple’s advice. From here on out I’m going to savor each and every moment. The first task on my list is to enjoy this last day of summer vacation, clouds, rain and all.

The boat is now anchored in the deep water. The rain has stopped. Michael and I stand on the back of the boat, toes grabbing the edge. In tandem we jump into the cold water.  It is cold but refreshing.

We swim until thunder cuts our antics short and chases us into the boat. We are deluged with rain on the way to the dock, but it’s ok, we are already wet.